Annie Rose grabbed a festive bag from the trunk of her older VW convertible and scoped the surrounding area for witnesses. Ninety percent certain that there were none, she quietly shut the trunk and crouched, low, behind her car. Yes, she was going to do something naughty, and no, she didn't want anyone to see.

Something bright red and shiny snagged her attention. She looked up at an army of large, decorative, metallic heart shaped balloons with Happy Valentine’s Day printed on them. They floated overhead from streetlights next to towering palm trees and seemed to smirk at the mortals below. Are you loved? Do you have a Valentine in your life? Is your honey taking you out for dinner, surprising you with flowers and a giftie? Or are you alone? Again.

Damn balloons. Annie frowned and fumbled through her weathered but timeless Coach purse. So what if her husband Mike was out of town shooting an indie? Who cared if he was a little preoccupied and somewhat distant, lately? Valentine's Day was a stupid holiday. Too much pressure, too many expectations. She would have gladly done serious damage to the guy who inspired this crappy, sappy holiday. And then she remembered: Valentine had pissed off a Roman politician so much that Mr. Caesar chopped off that loser's head. Served Saint Do-Gooder right. She pulled out a cigarette, secretively lit it, and inhaled deeply. Aaaah.

God, it was so hard to smoke these days. Especially on a busy commercial street in sunny, pristine Santa Monica, California. People looked at you like you'd just dropped your drawers and peed on the sidewalk. It's not that Annie really wanted to smoke. She had already cut back, knew she had to quit. But, how? Nasty tasting gum, a poisonous patch and anti-depressants? Frankly, all options just seemed like, ick. But she was thirty-eight years old and jonesing for a baby. She'd promised Mike that she'd clean up her oven before they officially tried to get pregnant. Her biological clock, which Mike called her Irish-Italian-German weapon of mass destruction, was ticking.

She checked her watch, stomped out her ciggie, and shoved the butt into her purse. Tired of being judged as a smoker, she wasn't about to be accused of littering as well.

She jogged down the block towards two white twenty-story buildings, so gleaming and spotless, she half suspected overzealous dental hygienists flossed the buildings' exteriors every night. She was going to a very important appointment and had to be as clean and presentable as possible. She grabbed breath spray from her purse, spritzed her mouth and then, oh, what the hell, her hands, too. Ran them through her hair, exchanging the smoke smell for a minty-fresh peppermint. Now her 'do was fresh, albeit a little sticky. Thank God it wasn't fly season. She wiped her hands on the “Juicy” brand embroidered sweats that clung to her moderately toned ass, when out of friggin' nowhere, an ancient baby stroller piled high with recyclables and a sleeping bag pushed by a beat-up homeless man, materialized in her path.

She tried to dodge the funky caravan but couldn't slam on her brakes fast enough. It's not that she was a linebacker. She was actually a size four or six or eight, depending on salt intake, what dessert she was perfecting, and that time of the month. She clipped this homeless guy's show-they spun around, cans and vitamin water bottles flying one way, her and the homeless guy going the other.

“Damn!” she said and caught herself on the stroller.

“Oof,” the homeless guy said, also aimed at the pavement, but caught himself right above her Juicy. Actually, right on her Juicy.

She gasped. Oh God no, had she run over someone again? Was this victim alive? Judging by his firm grip on her butt and surrounding private areas, she assumed he was. “Are you okay? I'm really sorry,” she said. “I didn't see you. I'm rushing…” Was he going to take his hands off her nether regions, or had he died and gone into premature rigor mortis?

He removed his hands and pushed back his hair. “Don't worry about it,” he said, picked up his scattered recyclables and belongings, and tossed them back in the stroller.

Up close, Mr. Homeless didn't seem all that scary. “I'll help,” she said and bent down to pick up his notebook lying on the sidewalk.

He snatched it away from her and tossed it into the stroller. “I don't need any help.”

Annie tossed her ponytail over her shoulder. “Look,” she said as she dug through her purse and thrust some cash at him. “My mistake. I didn't see you. I'm really, really sorry.”

“I've had worse days,” he said and ignored the five spot she waved at him as he picked up his last plastic bottle.

“Okay.” She retrieved her bag from the sidewalk and looked inside. Good, they weren't broken. She pulled out two items from the bag and offered them to the man. Those items were the size of a baseball, plump, and wrapped snugly in saran wrap, with a sticker on top that read, “Piccolino's Pastries.”

“These are freshly baked organic, carrot apple muffins. They have no trans fat or corn syrup. They're healthy, delicious and my recipe. If you bought them at the Tea Cup, it would cost you over five bucks, plus something for that stupid tip jar. Not to be against hard working people, but I hate that stupid tip jar. 'Cause 98% of the time all those people are doing is handing you the stuff that you've already bought. What if we had to tip at the self-serve gas station?”

He nodded his head. “But if you don’t put something in the tip jar, you're considered a low-life.”

“I know,” she said. “Those service people are poorly paid, and I feel badly about that. But, I believe the responsibility lies on the shoulders of their employers. Not me. 'Cause, I'm basically poorly paid, too. The tip jar thing just escalates this war within my head, which drives me crazy.”

The homeless man frowned. “Tell me about it,” he said. Their hands touched for a moment as he accepted her food offering.

Sadness washed over Annie like a tsunami. It drowned her heart and flooded her head. She pulled away from him and swayed. Dammit. The stupid empathic thing was happening to her, in her, again. Her stomach heaved and she hunched over. She must have turned a funky shade of white, as he grabbed both of her arms and stopped her from taking a header.

“You okay? Breathe. Why don't you tell me your name?”

“Annie Rose Graceland Piccolino,” she said and breathed deeply, just like he suggested. “Wow. I must have taken a bigger jolt than I thought.” She lied – it was definitely an empathic hit. It wasn't her pain – it was his. But she felt it, in her body. She was still hunched over.

He hung onto her, holding her up. “Sometimes that happens,” he said.

She stood up, stepped away from him, clasped her hands behind her back and stretched her shoulders. Pounded her feet on the ground. Finally looked at him. “Thanks. I've got an appointment.”

“Then you'd better get to it.”

She picked up her bag, and walked off slowly down the sidewalk. Stopped. Turned and regarded him, unsure. “I know this is none of my business, but your brother's worried about you.” She walked back towards him. “Give him a call and tell him where you've landed,” she pulled some bills from her purse.

His eyes widened as he nodded and took the cash.

***

Annie examined the directory on the wall in the very sterile lobby of St. Cecelia's Medical Complex. Hollywood's elite flocked to St. Cecelia's. The directory list included laboratories and medical corporations, diagnostic facilities, and doctors for every body part imaginable. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass directory's cover. She looked disheveled. That look would not work for her very important doctor's appointment. She smoothed her long auburn curls, licked her finger and wiped a little smudge off her face.

She shared the elevator ride up with an ancient short man with bottle-thick spectacles. He had a red runny nose and rubbed his hands, over and over.

“You scared of heights?” Annie asked. Not an empathic hit, simply common sense.

The man gave her a knowing look, stood up as tall as he could and then sneezed and farted softly. “Ah. You recognize me!” he yelled. “Yes, Red. I am the Mort Feinberg of Feinberg's Famous Deli. We've catered every celebrity bris, bar mitzvah, wedding and funeral in this town. Even the Christians and the agnostics hire us. But no, Red. I never wore tights or pantyhose, for that matter. That's just another Hollywood rumor.” Mort plopped out two more sneezes, two more farts. “Sorry! You're probably worried I'm contagious. But Dougie the pharmacist at the Rite-Aid on San Vicente told me I'm over that phase. I'm actually going for my annual prostate exam, today. Had a scare a couple of years back. But I don't think you can catch that, Red. Although in this town you never know.” He eyed her up and down to ascertain if her goods were the real deal.

Annie hid a smile, which disappeared as she watched Mort rub his hands again. “Would you try this, Mr. Feinberg?” she hollered and handed him a muffin.

Their hands touched. She held onto Mort's hands for a second longer than greeting an average stranger. “I'm a pastry chef and I'd love your professional opinion.”

Mort peeled back the saran wrap and took a bite. “Nice texture. Firm, but moist. You ever think about raisins?”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Willed herself to go inside, really think about it, try to feel it, make the empathic thing happen. No, she wasn't thinking about raisins. Okay, maybe Mort's kind. But she felt zip. Nothing went “Ding, Ding, Ding!” in her mind or body. She opened her eyes and steadied herself with one hand on the elevator wall. “No worries on your Doctor's visit today, Mr. Feinberg. I get a good feeling you're healthy as a challah. I'll get back to you about the raisins.”

Mort handed her his business card. “You're right and we've got a date, doll. Remember, I'm always looking for new culinary talent. Don't be shy about calling that number.” The elevator door opened and he winked at her before he shuffled out, sneezing and farting down the hallway.

Annie walked, a little wobbly down the sterile hallway. She didn't know if her gait was off from her fall or the multiple empathic hits that drained her ability to concentrate or balance. When she spotted the office door that housed the key to her dreams.

There were more names on that door than park benches with pigeon crap. How many M.D.s could one office hold? Maybe they were all really, really tiny. Like they'd been shrunk by one of the many medical labs on the premises in a top-secret government conspiracy.

Obviously, she read too many mysteries. Unless she completely trusted somebody, everything and everybody else could hold a deep dark secret, or an ulterior motive. The Medical Doctor, in the Laboratory, with the Revolver. Mike said she was paranoid. Her Irish grandfather said she was overly sensitive, but in a good way. Nancy, her mother, just wanted her to regularly attend a nice Lutheran church, pray and possibly find a single pastor to marry. Nancy was in denial that Annie was already married to Mike. How could that marriage be God-fearing or binding when they had tied the un-holy knot four plus years ago in some ticky-tacky chapel in Sin City Las Vegas?

For Annie it was binding enough that they wanted to cement their bond further by having a baby. She took her deepest breath of the day, and walked through that door.

***

On her stroll to the front desk she checked out the office walls. They were pastel. The art consisted of multi-cultural renditions of fertility goddesses, like a shrine to getting plowed, knocked up and birthing babies. This place was the mother ship for mother-dom.

She signed in at the ledger and handed muffins to both ladies behind the sliding glass windows. Receptionist Edna and Nurse Jennifer were attractive and hovered around forty years old. They wore medical scrubs decorated in cutesy teddy bears that happily played with their toes and other body parts. Their nametags featured smiling duckies. They oohed and aahed over the muffins like they were baby pictures, and thanked her.

“You're welcome. Carrot apple muffins, completely healthy, my recipe and currently on sale at the Tea Cup and Country March Cafe,” Annie said. She turned and looked for a place in the waiting room to park her behind. But the room was packed. Apparently fifteen other women shared her appointment time. Ten of those women already appeared pregnant. Nine out of those ten couldn't have been more than twenty-eight-years-old, max. Frankly, it was hard not to be discouraged.

She spotted an aging former supermodel hunched in the corner. Her belly was as flat as her career and dark circles hung under her eyes. One seat was empty and available directly next to her. Yay! It was like hitting the trifecta. Not only a chair, but also maybe a peer, or even better – an ally! Annie squeezed past a line of round tummies and sat down next to supermodel. Dug in her bag, pulled one out. “Muffin?” she offered.

Supermodel pouted. “Those were art pictures. I don't know, and refuse to comment on how Penthouse got a hold of them,” she said, crinkled her pretty nose and fanned her face in irritation. “Smoke! I smell cigarette smoke. I went through rehab three times. I'm off alcohol, blow, heroin, and haven't hit a nightclub in four months. My uterus is pure!” She pointed at Annie. “You! How dare you expose me to smoke!”

Damn, the minty fresh stuff didn't work. Several women leaned away from Annie in horror. The entire room of Baby Belles turned and stared at her like she was wearing an “I'M A CHILD MOLESTER!” t-shirt at a playground.

Just in time, Nurse Jennifer cracked the miracle door between the waiting room and actual office hallway. She waved at Annie, “Mrs. Piccolino? Follow me.”

Montages of baby pictures, baby announcements and personalized Thank You notes filled the hallways walls. “You, Mrs. Piccolino are quite the baker,” Nurse Jennifer said.

“Pastry chef. Thank you!”

“As you know, St. Cecelia's is a teaching hospital. Today Dr. Goldblatt will be assisted by Dr. Putter.”

“Dr. Putter's an intern?”

“Yes,” Nurse Jennifer said and opened a door to an examining room. “Isn't young blood exciting?”

“Aah…hmm.” Annie wasn't sure how to answer. “Yummy.”

***

Dressed in her airy paper gown in a miniscule exam room, Annie reclined on the short exam table. Ms. Medical Assistant sat in the room's corner, yawned and watched as Dr. Putter took her blood pressure. Ms. Assistant was obviously present to be Ms. Non-Malpractice Suit. Dr. Putter looked about fourteen years old. He had a patch of pimples on his forehead and three hairs on his chin like he was attempting to sprout a goatee. Maybe he was a savant. She checked out more framed wall montages of gorgeous babies and blissful parents. She pointed at a pic of one kid and smiled. “That one's got Mike's dimples and my eyes.”

Dr. Putter frowned. “Hopefully it doesn't have your blood pressure. Have you been stressed out, um, I mean, experienced undue stress, lately?”

Now Annie frowned. “Well, my husband's been gone a lot – acting classes and he's filming an indie in Vancouver. I parked blocks away and ran to be here on time.”

Dr. Goldblatt burst into the room and grabbed Annie's chart. Now this guy looked more like a doctor. Seasoned. Trustworthy. More salt than pepper in his hair. No pimples. He flipped through her chart and devoured the info in seconds. “Why is Mrs. Piccolino's chart missing her lab results?” Dr. Goldblatt glared at Dr. Putter.

Dr. Putter twitched and squealed. “Her blood pressure's 160 over 100.”

“I need her lab results. Now.”

“Yes, Dr. Goldblatt!” Dr. Putter raced out the door.

Annie stuck her hand out in a friendly gesture. “Hi Dr. Goldblatt. I'm–”

“I understand you want to get pregnant. Please scoot towards the end of the examining table.”

Based on a referral by some friend of Mike's, Annie had made an appointment with Dr. Goldblatt over two months ago. She'd visited St. Cecelia's lab to get her blood work done ahead of time, to expedite this whole pre-getting pregnant checkup thing. While this was her first official meeting with the brilliant Dr. Goldblatt, apparently he was short on time. So, she scooted.

“All the way to the end of the table.”

She plopped her butt even further down. Her gown ripped and exposed her left breast. She reached and tried to cover it up.

“Yes, yours are lovely, but I've seen about eighty thousand. Feet in the comfy stirrups, please.”

She complied. Dr. Goldblatt squished and poked her boobs in what seemed like a very professional manner.

“When was your last mammogram?”

“Uh. I haven't had one yet,” she confided.

“That's irresponsible. You're …” He referenced her chart. “You're almost forty! You get a mammogram this week. I see on your chart that you're a smoker. You have to quit. Smoking decreases your fertility, damages your lungs and heart. Eventually you'll get those hideous vertical lip line wrinkles from sucking on something you shouldn't be sucking on.”

Great bedside manner. Was Dr. Goldblatt now going to tell her what she should be sucking on? He picked up a ginormous speculum that looked alarmingly like a .44, and headed towards her hoo-hah.

“This might be a little chilly and you'll feel a tiny pinch.”

Annie's eyes widened and she reflexly clamped her legs shut, trapping Dr. Goldblatt's arms between her inner thighs. “Sorry! Leg cramp.” She pictured one of those lean, mean, James Bond villainesses. Those chicks wouldn't let the obnoxious Drs. Goldblatt and Putter pair putz in their privates, without at first showing a little respect.

“Yes, mother, I should have become a lawyer,” Dr. Goldblatt sighed. “Open, please. I have fifteen more appointments this hour.”

Dr. Putter raced back into the room and handed Annie an 8 X 10 white envelope adorned with a red rose. “Delivery service dropped it off. Came for you addressed to our office. Like, weird? Who knew you were going to be here today?”

She took the envelope, surprised. “Like, my husband Mike. My mom. My friends. My dry cleaner, Mr. Wong. He's really nice and always gets the worst spots out. The salesgirls at Country March Cafe, The Tea Cup–”

“My arm,” Dr. Goldblatt said.

Annie unclenched her legs. Dr. Goldblatt fell backwards. Dr. Putter thrust a wad of paperwork at him as he struggled to maintain his balance on his rotating stool. “Doctor, I think you need to take a look at these numbers.”

She looked at the envelope and the rose. It was red, in full bloom and beautiful. Mike had totally come through on Valentine's Day. Annie smelled the rose, savored it. Maybe she didn‟t hate this holiday as much as she thought.

She pulled out the contents of the envelope. They were 8 X 10 photo glossies. Ooh, did Mike have new headshots done? No. The first picture was of Mike, shirtless and making out with, well, had to be her! When was that picture taken? How sweet of him to send it. A reminder of their enduring love. She flipped to the next photo. Oh! This was a naked back and butt shot of Mike in a very compromising sexy position. He was being a Valentine's Day bad boy! She smiled, held the picture a little closer to her eyes – she couldn't see her face yet, or remember when these pics were taken. But this was so naughty, fun and very romantic. When Mike got back from his indie shoot, she'd surprise him and substitute smokes for a little something else suck-able. Thank you, Dr. Goldblatt for the pep talk.

“FSH high,” Dr. Goldblatt muttered as he reviewed Annie's lab results.

“What does that mean?” Annie asked.

Dr. Goldblatt nodded complicitly at Dr. Putter. “Means Dr. Putter has to take your blood pressure again.”

She winced as the cuff expanded and squeezed the shit out of her arm. She flipped to the next picture. In this shot, Mike nibbled on someone's perfect rippling abs. Annie didn't have perfect rippling abs. Hers were more gravity-prone, waving-in-the-wind, bouncing-through-earthquakes kind of abs. Which meant that –

Oh jesusmothermaryandjoseph. Her husband was not only cheating on her, but also doing it with some slutty starlet with a rocking body.

She started hyperventilating. They moved to L.A. from Wisconsin four years ago to pursue Mike's big acting career. He signed up for very serious, pricey acting classes, went on cattle calls and joined Gold's Gym to get as buff and cast-able as possible. Let's face it, not everyone could be the gladiator, but there was always a need for dying Spartans and spear-carriers. Mike encouraged her to pump iron with him. But she was passionate about using her spare time to pursue her own career as a pastry chef. Worked on creating her menu of delectable desserts. Maybe even have her own successful label some day, like Mrs. Field's. Perhaps based on the photos she was viewing her decision was selfish.

Dr. Goldblatt stared at Annie's lab results. “Your LH levels are high. Not good,” he muttered, and shook his head. “You're not actress age thirty-eight, right? That would mean you're actually fifty.”

“I'm really thirty-eight. Who delivered this package?” she asked.

Her inquiry seemed to make Putter more nervous, and he pumped the blood pressure cuff higher. It swelled to near popping levels and for the life of her, Annie couldn‟t contain. “Putter, I swear if my arm doesn't explode first, I'll personally chew it off and hand it to you. Take it home as a 'First Day on the Job' trophy,” she said.

Dr. Putter pouted, but let the cuff deflate.

She turned away, gathered her courage and stuck out her stiff upper lip. Yes, in Wisconsin, there really was such a thing usually due to a few too many brewskies before snowmobiling in below freezing weather. Her free hand shook as she flipped to the last picture in the Valentine's Day batch. That photo was of a person who had chin stubble, developed arms, chest hair, and was passionately kissing Mike. It wasn't a starlet with a hot bod. Her husband, Mike was making out with a man.

She screamed and dropped the pictures. She clutched her chest and wheezed. “I can't breathe!” She fanned her face, gulped and tried to force air into her nose and mouth.

Dr. Goldblatt tossed her chart onto the countertop and sighed, “Mrs. Piccolino. You're most likely experiencing what is commonly called a hot flash. I am sorry to inform you that you're not prime to get pregnant. Lab results conclude you're in peri-menopause.”

She felt her face flush with blood. “Shit. No. I. Can't. Breathe,” she said, pinched Dr. Putter's arm and pointed to the glossies lying on the floor.

He picked them up, blanched and showed them to Dr. Goldblatt who replied, “Do an HIV, an HPV, a Hep-C and a standard STD panel.” Dr. Goldblatt glanced at his watch. “Mrs. Piccolino. Chances of you conceiving without fertility measures are about one in a thousand. With fertility, it's still very expensive and your insurance won't cover it. And you still need viable sperm. Frankly, the odds don't seem to be in your favor.”

“I can't bre…” Annie rasped. “I ca…” she collapsed back on the table and one of her legs fell out of the comfy stirrups. She had one eye half open and watched the room spin around.

A discrete knock on the door and Nurse Jennifer popped her head inside. “Dr. Goldblatt your next five patients…” she began. “Good lord. She looks like a completely trashed Girls Gone Wild chick.”

Drs. Goldblatt and Putter regarded Nurse Jennifer, a little surprised.

“Oh, please. Do you really think I only watch Lifetime?” Nurse Jennifer said. “I'm calling 911.”
Dr. Goldblatt said, “Oh yes. She's not dying on my table.”

Magic Muffins
Description: Pureed carrots and apples in a healthy, trans-fat free muffin batter baked to moist perfection and plump proportions.

Appropriate Occasions: An entrepreneurial way to introduce yourself and/or promote your fine line of baked goods. Offer as an apology gift after offending people, or injuring them. Buy time while you intuitively dive into another person's body and search for emotional illness or disease.

Best Served With: An Entrepreneurial Spirit. Remorse. Curiosity. Empathic Ability.